


Blue Light (i'm waiting for it, that)

by zanni_1 (zanni_scaramouche)



Series: In Your Eyes (the light, the heat) [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst and Porn, Barebacking, Biting, Check Notes for more details on that, Come Marking, Coming Untouched, Drug Use, Frottage, M/M, Mafia AU, Mild Breathplay, Mild Painplay, Minor Character Death, Mob Boss Derek Hale, Oral Sex, Past Peter Hale/Lydia Martin, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Derek, Stripper Stiles Stilinski, gang related criminal activity, mentions of animal death, sums it up nicely
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:34:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23573953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zanni_scaramouche/pseuds/zanni_1
Summary: Derek pays him to dance, Stiles enjoys the sex on the side, and that’s all that ties them together. Whatever else the enigmatic man does is none of Stiles’ fucking business.Stiles works at a club owned by infamous Derek Hale, leader of the largest criminal organization this side of the country. As they twirl closer together police and rival gangs start to gain the upper hand, forcing everyone's loyalty to be questioned.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Series: In Your Eyes (the light, the heat) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1714648
Comments: 44
Kudos: 484





	1. A Shame

**Author's Note:**

> Do you understand what just happened here? I wrote a sterek Godfather AU, then wrote a Scisaac OS based on it, then I made it a Larry OS, and then I wrote a full Larry fic based on the OS, and then I made it Sterek…. Is this what going crazy is like? Just round and round we gooooo. Honestly the hardest part was americanising it and I’m Canadian. Sorry if I missed something! No beta and I wrote very quickly. Let me know if you catch something off. I just want everyone to enjoy the fic no matter what you ship! If you fancy 1D you can give the Larry story a peak, titled 'V' on my dash. 
> 
> Title from Green Light by Lorde. Give 'er a listen. 
> 
> Yoo if you have any concerns about the TAGS or content know this:  
> human trafficking, narcotics/alcohol and graphic violence will be featured. Explicit language. Allusions to subspace. There's a moment withdrawal of consent pops in, but it passes. Also the death is sorta... a high profile character. I'll go and say D + S make it, but everyone else is fair game. You've been warned! Stay safe!

They’ve been acquainted less than a month. Every few days Stiles struts past the office only to catch a glimpse of broad shoulders and the deep rumble of a particular voice. He was lucky to get the job, the hiring process intimidating not by the competition but due to the sharp cut of the suits the men wore while evaluating him. The thorough questions, the high stress on loyalty, and the endless papers for him to sign. Most thought it too invasive, too intense, to become ornamental. Stiles could see through the high gloss surfaces and sleek design inside the club. Money like this didn’t come from nowhere, he knew what he was getting involved in. Who he would be involved with.

The man kept himself purposefully removed, the distance helping obscure his mysterious persona, which Stiles assumed he wore with the sole purpose of keeping people intrigued. Stiles was intrigued. Maybe he should have been careful about it, the naked desperation simmering in his gut, but he wasn’t. Every time their eyes met it engulfed him. It must have shown, because he was rewarded with a slow and wicked smile.

Nearly a month since he learned Stiles’ name and started greeting him with sly looks. Weeks Stiles spent scanning the crowd every time he sashayed onto the floor to mingle with high society in less fabric then he slept in. He wasn’t ashamed of his body, couldn’t be with this job, but on rare occasions those green eyes electrified every inch of revealed skin in a way Stiles could feel from across the room.

Off limits. One of the many agreements Stiles signed stated so. None of the employees had been successful catching his eye in the time Stiles’ been there, especially with no touching or teasing allowed. Not that he’s around much to do so. Every glimpse is fleeting, and Stiles never sees him twice on the same night. Stiles imagines leading the largest criminal organization on this coast involves keeping a busy schedule.

Now it’s late, so late it’s early, and Stiles’ returning to the change rooms to rinse the sweat and hands he can still feel on him from a long night of work. The change in shift and position was more physically demanding than he’s used to, and it also means using the rooms near the office instead of the familiar ones provided backstage. He’s rubbing a stubborn ache in his neck when he catches sight of the man at the other end of the hall. His feet give a small hiccup he prays goes unnoticed. Stiles ducks into the change room where his street clothes are bundled in a mess at the bottom of his locker, running a hand through sweaty hair and breathing out in relief at finally having a moment alone.

The reprieve is short lived. He’s there, closing the door behind him with greedy green eyes and a twist of a smile. He crowds Stiles against the wall slowly, plenty of time to step away. It’s impossible. Stiles is frozen under him and they both know it. He comes closer, hot breath brushing against Stiles’ face, firm hands on his waist to hold him in place. Only when he has him, with his breath on Stiles’ neck and the immovable weight of his body caging him in, does he speak.

“Stiles,” he hums, “I’ve been watching you.” He noses lightly at the sensitive skin by Stiles’ pulse, “have you been watching me?”

Stiles swallows with a dry throat and nods, all words abandoning him. He feels the man smile, a sharp press of teeth on his neck.

“I’ve been thinking about you, too. Do you want me to show you what I think about?”

He shouldn't. His signature is on the papers swearing he wouldn't. But that was before Stiles knew the musky smell of him and the texture of a fine silk suit against his bare skin.

“Please,” he whines.

Derek's teeth are no longer gentle, his mouth a searing wet heat.

Stiles’ never seen him in anything other than a suit, but there’s an underlying wildness to Derek. The snarls he does nothing to tame, the blunt way in which he speaks, the relentless focus of his eyes that pin you down without consideration for their intensity. He’s an animal wrapped in tailored threads. Yet the precise way he pulls Stiles’ hips against his and the measured way he runs a hand along his sides until it rests gently at the crook of his neck and shoulder, it all speaks to a measure of control Stiles imagines only comes out when he’s fucking or killing.

Derek’s hand is light around Stiles’ neck. His pulse triples in speed. He’s never been into that, never been into much besides the basics, but maybe he should think about it. He’s thinking about it. The man’s fingers press lightly into the column of Stiles’ throat, a tease of the strength he’s keeping contained, before his hand curls into the hair on the back of Stiles’ head to tilt him up, up, and now teeth are sinking into his lips and he’s really fucking glad he let his hair grow out. It’s sharp and demanding, but there’s still something holding back in it.

The last time Stiles touched someone was a teenaged girlfriend, pleasant and sweet and they both laughed as they fumbled through it. The last thing Derek’s touch makes Stiles want to do is laugh.

Air is hard enough to push through his throat when there’s a clothed thigh creating friction on the sensitive skin between his legs with the intoxicating press of Derek’s thick length. The wall behind Stiles is uncomfortably cold and the scorching heat of a body against his chest causes him to ache. Caught between two extremes he doesn't know where to pull or push. By the time their mouths part Stiles is trembling.

Derek tells him to get on the ground.

The floor is freezing. It brightens the world, a flash of reality spiking into this dazed dream. What the fuck are he doing, kneeling on the floor of his workplace in front of a man more dangerous without a gun than with? His hand is still in Stiles’ hair. It tugs until he look up, up, up to his eyes and he’s gone again. Stiles’ hands find muscled thighs and he watches in blown curiosity as they slide up and over the silk covered swell of Derek, pressing firmly against his dick through the thin layers.

The feel of it under his hand is intoxicating. Derek’s eyes are dark, his head haloed by light as he watches Stiles fumble through the clasps and pull down the waist bands and he’s not watching those green eyes anymore, he’s watching the fine line of hair from Derek’s navel down down down until, finally, a bare cock is inches from his face. There’s no denying what's happening, what’s going to happen, as Derek uses calloused fingers to leisurely stroke himself.

Stiles’ seen this before, on the tiny LED screen of his laptop and from the other side when his ex girlfriend attempted. He can guess what to do and what not to do. He licks his lips and lets Derek place the salty tip on his tongue, hot and heavier than expected. Slowly he closes his mouth around it. Damn. He barely recalls how he got here, but in for a penny in for a pound. Derek’s hand cradles the side of his head as he slides in half way, slow enough that Stiles could pull back if he wanted, but he doesn't know what he wants, so he lets him sink deeper.

How has no one told him what this feels like? How possessive a hand feels in his hair, how much he needs to concentrate on breathing and swallowing and keeping his teeth covered and despite that he’s twitching in his tight pants like he’s seconds away from coming in them. He keeps one hand on Derek’s thigh and presses the heel of the other into his own crotch for friction.

Derek slides out long and slow, shallowly thrusting and Stiles’ caught by the drag of him on his tongue. His eyelids flutter. He can’t stop the moan or the hand he uses to work himself. He forgets everything he’d just been focused on to stay alive and gets lost in the feel of Derek filling his mouth over and over.

The pace quickens, the hand in Stiles’ hair tightens. Spit is running down his chin in a way that can’t be attractive and there are tears and his nose is running and still every time his eyes clear long enough to see Derek’s staring down at him with an unwavering focus. Those eyes strip him bare. He’s a disastrous mess, and the sound of them echoing around the small room is vulgar. He hides behind his lids.

“Look at me,” and Stiles can't open his eyes fast enough, the green of Derek’s irises swallowed by pupils. “Fuck, Stiles.”

Derek pushes in so far Stiles chokes, panic flaring in his chest before Derek pulls out so he can breathe, one long gasp before another as Derek strokes himself, watching. Stiles wonders if the heat of the moments passed, if he’s screwed it up. But Derek’s still got a hand on his dick and Stiles’ mouth is starting to feel strange, like it’s empty and misses the hot weight of him, and he’s quite positive there’s a wet spot where his own dick is absolutely throbbing. He doesn't realize the whine is coming from himself until it cuts off with a ragged breath. He feels desperate at Derek’s feet, unable to think past the haze of wanting.

“Up.”

Stiles staggers against the wall, using it to support himself as Derek presses in once more and yanks at Stiles’ small briefs until they’re halfway around his thighs and his cock is finally free. Stiles chokes on his breath when Derek unceremoniously wraps a hand around him, and he can’t look away from where he’s being stroked in thorough pulls. The hand is tight and rough, a little dry. Skilled where it swipes over his sensitive tip.

When Derek stops it’s only to press his hips in closer, lining up against Stiles, and he spits to ease the friction. There are two words left in Stiles’ vocabulary, a curse and Derek’s name, and he alternates between them with his hands fisted into the fine threads of the man’s shirt.

Derek leans in close and sucks near the back of Stiles’ ear like he knows it’s all that’s needed because Stiles’ gone, absolutely shattered as his abs clench and his balls tighten and he’s coming hot all over the two of them. Derek uses his release to slick the way on his own dick and Stiles’ never seen anything hotter and he’s mesmerized, already praying he never forgets the image of it. He’s still pulsing with aftershocks as Derek finishes between them with nothing more than the sharp sound of Stiles’ name on his lips.

Stiles’ at a loss of what comes next. He’s the cuddling kind, but he’s never had sex not near a couch or a bed and Derek’s already pulled away. If he tries to stand without the wall his knees would fail, so he stays put and lets Derek lead, just as he has since he walked in the room. The touch of silk on his stomach is a surprise he flinches at, before realising it’s just Derek. He’s coiled his tie around the hand now meticulously wiping Stiles down with prompt strokes. Derek helps him tug his boxers back on.

The hair near Derek’s forehead is a bit damp, his cheeks perhaps a little flush, but his shirt is tucked in under the jacket he’s already slid back into and he looks the same as he always does. Composed, if a bit wild. Stiles tries to remember the way his name sounded as he came.

He doesn't know if he can meet Derek’s eyes, if he should, what he should say, if he should say anything. Derek takes care of it by pressing in for a kiss so long and savage Stiles loses himself. His mouth is raw and oversensitive, hyper aware of the vicious way Derek moves against him. Demanding. With a heavy hand gripping tight at Stiles’ waist and the other down his boxers on the bare skin of his ass he takes and takes. Derek pulls away brutally, all at once.

“I’ll see you next week.”

He’s gone like a phantom, not even his footsteps heard. Stiles’ still catching his breath.

Sometimes he knows. A thousand eyes on him and he can only feel a singular pair of opals sliding over his sweating curves. Walking by the office at the end of a night and hearing Scott’s cackling accompanied by a low chuckle he knows the taste of. Sometimes a hand appears out of thin air. Before a thought can enter his mind he’s against a lacquered wall or the backside of a tightly locked door, weighed down with the heavy press of a body and a vicious mouth on his. Every week it’s quick and brutal and Stiles is left panting and sloppily put back together as Derek disappears without more than a handful of words. He doesn’t know why him, why now, but he doesn’t linger too much on it either. His fosters always did call him impulsive. 

By the end of a night his hair has a habit of sticking to his eye lashes. With a sigh he pushes it back. He’s going to cut it soon, and unlike the last thousand times he told himself this, he really means it. A familiar ringing in his ears from constant heavy bass accompanies him in the silence of the club’s closing hour as he pads on bare feet through the neon lit back hall. Tonight it’s settled on a purple hue and it puts a little warmth in Stiles’ tummy, he always likes the purple nights. Purple reminds him of rare smiles and a particular tie he made a mess of. 

With a hand hooked onto the doorframe he swings lightly into the dressing room. The long expanse of Liam’s exposed backside greets him, Erica shrugging into a soft trackie set beside him. Damn, they knew what they were doing when they hired that boy. Not a flaw to him.

“Gonna blind me someday if you don’t start wearing pants.”

Liam gives him a cheeky smile over his shoulder as he pulls up loose sweats. Erica rolls her eyes.

“If there’s someone who’s gotta keep their pants on it’s you. Don’t think you’ve been disappearing without notice, some of us are actually here to do our jobs,” she shrugs her blush pink bag onto her shoulder and cuts him a more serious look, “and not break contract, mind you.” 

There are a lot of contracts, so Stiles’ not too bothered that they particularly know who he’s been disappearing with as he digs out the least disheveled clothes from beneath the mess in his locker. They aren’t even supposed to hook up with each other, but you get a fair amount of attractive people half naked and sweaty in the same room on a daily basis there’s only one real outcome. Stiles’ never crossed that line. Or he hadn’t, until he’d been dragged over by exceptionally firm hands. 

Liam snickers as he follows Erica out with his own bag tossed onto his back. 

He spins on his heels to Stiles, “She’s jealous, Stiles. Her last no-strings just tried to make an honest woman out of her. Must have been suicidal,” he laughs with a quick rap against the door frame before disappearing into the purple light. 

Stiles chuckles along at the thought, no wonder she’d been wound up lately. His shower is brief and soon he’s set in his favourite rumpled hoodie and runners. He stares at the inside of his locker, debating if he should fill his now empty pack to change out what he’s kept here, fuck knows when the last time he actually did laundry was, but despite the late hour he’s got a feeling about tonight. He shuts the locker empty handed. 

Voices ring out in the hall, muted through walls but louder than the usual jamboree chatter of Scott shooting the shit with Kira over a bottle of something strong. Stiles’ barely two steps out the door when a panther in a man's body stalks out of the office. Beneath the harsh shadow Stiles catches a sneer carved into the man’s features. Instinctively Stiles’ feet step to the side. 

The voices in the office have stopped and Stiles figures maybe he was wrong about tonight's prospects, wouldn’t be the first time, but the least he can do is say goodnight to Scott and maybe get a laugh out of him. Especially if the poor guy had to deal with a man like that. 

The office door is left open and Stiles spins into it much the same as he did earlier that evening. He’s opened his mouth with a crass joke he knows will be to Scott’s liking when he catches sight of a man in a dark suit on the couch. An undignified squeak catches in his throat before he can shut his mouth. He flicks his eyes around and yep, there’s Derek’s shadow lurking in the corner with his arms crossed and a low brow. Some things never change. 

Scott smiles a little lackluster at the sight of him and Stiles near trips as he starts to back out with the room’s solemn attention on him. 

“Cool,” he drawls smoothly as he can manage, chin up, “Just heading out, then,” he widens his eyes at Scott for the sake of his widening smirk, the man clearly enjoying Stiles’ awkward fumble. 

“Stiles,” His eyes snap to Derek as a thrill shoots through him. Not necessarily of excitement, the look on Derek’s face could come close to killing a man and Stiles is thankful it’s directed at Derek’s own white fisted hands instead of Stiles’ face. Stiles had been too focussed on not looking at him to see how tight his muscles were coiled. “Wait in the hall.”

And there’s not much he can do about the grit of a command like that. Swallowing roughly he ducks out and leans against the wall, heart pounding. It’s a tad ridiculous really, he’s not some school kid in trouble with a teacher but it sure as hell feels like it. The door is shut behind him so he waits in silence, bouncing on his feet and fiddling with his oversized cuffs. Something sparks and he stills in thought. 

Scott must know about him and Derek, because as much as Derek was his boss by virtue of owning the establishment, Scott was the one who ran the club. He knew everything that happened within its walls, knew when to let the employees sleeping with each other slide and when people had run their course. Stiles was a longtime witness to it, coworkers he’d been friendly with disappearing one week after a missed shift or bad night and a new face quickly taking their place. Scott hadn’t confronted him yet, which meant Derek must have told him not to, which was a little unnerving. Stiles liked Scott, got on with him and his crude sense of humour and easy going atmosphere. It wasn’t uncommon to stop by and have a laugh after shift. Felt a bit odd that he knew Stiles was blowing their boss on a regular basis. 

Stiles couldn’t be the only one, he thought not for the first time. Surely Derek was fucking other people. Maybe not other employees, Stiles’ pretty sure he’d have noticed that, but there’s gotta be a ring of girls and boys Derek keeps in his palm for rainy days. He stares at the brick wall washed in neon light trying to calculate how often he sees Derek and how many other people there was time left for him to be with. He’s just about settled on a solid twelve when his thoughts scatter at the heft of the door.

Derek marches out and gives him a nod to follow. His shadow walks beside him. Stiles’ never actually spoken with the guy, from what he gathers he’s Derek’s bodyguard or some such. Absolutely fits the part with a stoic face and enough muscle to sink a ship. Stiles follows them to the back entrance and a sleek black SUV. It’s a bit cliche. If he weren’t shitting bricks he’d probably find it amusing. Mr. Mountain takes the front passenger while Derek slides into the back, leaving the seat open next to him. Stiles climbs in with trepidation. 

He hasn’t been in Derek’s presence this long without someone getting off and he’s starting to think maybe this is how all the other employees disappeared. The string of his jumper is soaked where he’s chewed it without thinking, a nervous habit, and he tries to let it go without being noticed. Peaking to the side he realises he’s failed epically, blushing because Derek’s staring right at him. 

“You’ve not met. Stiles, this is Isaac,” he meets the drivers eyes in grim greeting in the rearview mirror, “and Boyd.”

Stiles tips his head at the dark featured man who halfheartedly turns to nod back. 

“Nice to know the name of the man most likely to kill ya,” he says because he was never one to beat around the bush.

“Only if he makes me stand outside another paper thin shoebox. For the love of God,” he meets Stiles’ eyes over the head rest, “please kick Scott out and use the office. It’s much more soundproof.” 

Stiles cackles. Derek’s glaring out the window, a hand to his face so Stiles can’t see if he’s smiling or not, but the relief of his untimely doom possibly being delayed has left him feeling giddy. 

“I’ll keep in mind, but I’m sure there’s not much you haven’t heard at this point.”

Boyd turns pointedly to Derek, “Trust me. At this point, I’ll be the one shooting at his back.”

It calms Stiles a bit, the way those words have weight behind them that he can’t translate but Derek’s stiff shoulders say he sure gets the message. Stiles glances between the two, wondering if Boyd’s a brave or stupid man to threaten someone like Derek so blatantly, even jokingly, but the look Derek wears is more worn out than angry. 

“Don’t mind Boyd,” Derek says, “he’s had a rough day.” 

“Rough decade when it comes to your uncle,” Boyd spits. 

“Boyd,” Derek sighs, effectively ending the conversation. 

Stiles lingers on Boyd’s words. uncle. He hadn’t known Derek had one. He thinks the mystery uncle must look something like Derek. It’s a bit odd he has older family if Derek’s the one running things, but he’s sure that’s a mess he doesn’t want to get into. He slants a look at Derek, at the corner of his jaw, the curve of his ear, flare of his nose. Not once has he really put to question his age, but the absence of that knowledge strikes him now. Most likely older than Stiles’ twenty four, in fact he’s almost certain of it now that he’s looking. Not that it matters much, Stiles is pretty sure Derek could dye his hair to match the club lights and it wouldn’t change just how much Derek absolutely radiates power. 

Stiles amuses himself trying to morph Derek’s face into an older version his uncle might wear, perhaps with a narrower face and shorter hair. Probably grey and crotchety like the men who yell at kids to get off their lawns. Stiles has to muffle a laugh at the thought. The rest of the men are tense around him.

Derek leads him into a house on it’s way to becoming a mansion. It was once smooth gloss and minimalist design, now buried under layers of bold patterns and eclectic clutter. Boyd’s made himself scarce, Stiles doesn’t know if he even came into the house with them, but now it’s just him trailing after Derek’s quick pace through the open floor plan with something dark coiling in his stomach. There’s only one reason why he’d be brought back here. Delayed excitement thrums under his skin.

Derek’s face has been turned from Stiles since they got out of the car. As he follows him into a large room he barely makes out the grim set of Derek’s features, reminiscent of the scowl he wore in the office. The room has a length of windows to one side, dim pool lights and watery reflections the only things lighting Derek as he peels off his jacket and sits legs spread on the edge of a massive bed in the middle of the empty room. Stiles hovers just out of reach, one step away from being between Derek’s knees.

“You dance at my club.” Derek folds back the sleeves of his crisp shirt in neat movements with his eyes boring into Stiles’. 

“I do,” he responds when it’s clear Derek doesn’t plan to continue. 

“Dance for me.” 

Stiles would have rolled his eyes if there weren’t electricity running through his veins at the dark sound in Derek’s command. He toes out of his runners lightly in a step back to give him space, breathing deeply in an attempt to settle his bones. The only thing more reliable than dance in his life is the heart in his chest, and so long as it beats he’ll continue to move his body in ways that allow him to forget everything else. His jumper glides off in a single move and he steps abruptly into Derek’s space, body rolling against his in a familiar flow which mimics the ripples of light around the room. Derek’s hands still his hips.

“No,” ice shoots through Stiles at the brisk sound of the word. Derek’s stern face is inches away, “Dance for me.” 

Each word slowly enunciated and Stiles thinks he misunderstands, surely, but Derek’s firm fingers leave his waist as the man leans back on the bed. Stiles tugs at his hair. 

“It’s been awhile,” he hates the pressure in his chest that causes him to fumble the excuse, the nerves he never feels in front of hundreds of people that this pair of eyes has managed to bring out in him. Derek simply nods for him to go on. 

He pulls up the elastic bottoms of his joggers so they sit just below the knee, suddenly grateful he still has his ankle socks on and he slips them half off his feet. He rolls his ankles once, twice, not meeting Derek’s eyes as he finds a rough fourth position. It’s always a bit harder without music, and it’s harder still with his heart pounding. Dance. He breathes in. Dance. 

With his exhale his body falls into it. Painted in gentle waves he courses through steps ingrained into the fibre of his being. He flies into jumps and spots blindly into the dark room and crosses the expanse of floor in powerful grace. He finds a natural end to step forward and take a kneel. Vaguely he’s aware he was horrible. He’s damn lucky he already worked a full shift and his muscles are loose, but it was no compensation for the lack of proper warm up and ill footwear. It barely renders. All he sees is the man whose legs he kneels panting between. 

Derek has already unbuttoned his trousers. His hand on Stiles’ cheek slowly guides him in and he sees Derek didn’t wear anything beneath them.

With much more confidence than the first time he licks a broad path upwards, savouring the salty taste of the tip before sinking down. Derek keeps a solid hand gripped in his hair as Stiles loses himself in the rhythm of sucking him. He whines as the fingers tighten painfully and pull him off. Automatically he licks his swollen bottom lip and watches as Derek stands. He picks himself up seconds before strong hands grab his waist and shove him onto the bed. They push at him in the dim light until he’s belly down on his knees, face pressed into a suffocating duvet.

Derek tears Stiles’ joggers impatiently and Stiles shivers at the sudden air across his heated skin. Hot hands roughly grab his hips, pulling them higher and backwards until he feels the tacky press of Derek’s cock right between his cheeks. 

“Fuck,” comes a deep grunt behind him and Stiles’ inclined to agree, half mad with idea of letting himself be torn apart. He breathes wetly against the sheets as the body behind him vanishes. A floating feeling takes over him in the darkness until a hand presses to the small of his back. Derek hums something to him and Stiles cuts off the whine he hadn’t realised he was making. Wet and smooth and finally a finger presses.

“More,” he breathes before it’s proper in.

“Yeah? Just like that?” 

Derek doesn’t wait for an answer before another finger joins, and two pumps later a third. Stiles groans at the stretch and tries to move down into it before it disappears. He cries out in protest, but there’s still a hand on him and quickly the heavy heat of Derek’s dick glides along his crack until it pauses, heavy, right at his rim. Slow but insistent it sinks in and Stiles closes his eyes to focus on breathing as he breaks out into a sweat, overwhelmed. Drowning. 

Derek fucks into him relentlessly, low curses spilling from his mouth that Stiles can barely hear under his own gasping and at some point he’s pleading, absolutely begging and he has no idea what he’s asking. Derek tilts his hips and a hand in his hair presses Stiles deeper into the mattress. Instantly a coil of fire starts tightening in his stomach until it consumes every inch of him. 

“Derek, shit Derek, I’m-” he’s cut off by his own orgasm abruptly ripping through him in blazing white heat. Derek fucks him through it, picking up the pace. 

He pulls out and Stiles hears his name ground through teeth just as he feels Derek come all over his back. For a moment the world settles, their heavy breathing the only sound as the come starts to pool in the small of his back, a few fingers smearing it like they’re trying to press it into his skin. 

The warmth of Derek behind him disappears in a blink and Stiles feels like his strings have been cut. He sinks into the plush duvet, not minding the wet spot beneath him for the moment of reprise it gives his strung out muscles to simply be heavy. Through bleary eyes he catches the outline of Derek. Dark ink moves along his skin as he walks aways. It’s the first time Stiles’ seen him naked.

He flinches in surprise at the warm cloth wiping down his back, between his thighs, lets himself be turned over. His eyelids are concrete, impossible to lift despite his efforts. The damp joggers are pulled all the way off and he stretches his legs out luxuriously with a sigh.

A mouth meets his. Slow but insistent. Stiles enjoys the pleasant push and pull of a tongue against his until he manages to return the kiss with more vigour. Suddenly he’s pressed down on his back with Derek’s weight over him, the friction of Derek’s skin against his intoxicating and he grinds into it. He lets himself be pulled into the man’s strong hold once more. 

Stiles presses his face into the cloud it’s currently resting on and groans in protest at the brightness of the world. Every muscle sings along when he tries to stretch and he lets out another muffled plea to the universe. Rubbing his face into the pillow he realises with certainty that it is not the fuzzy flannel he’s used to. Delicately he squints into the blinding room. Everything is white and reflects the streaming sunlight from a wall of floor to ceiling windows at the foot of the bed. It’s like being in a high end magazine or display case, not a personal item in sight, nor another person for that matter. Only one matters, and Stiles focuses on hearing for any clue as to where Derek might be. Nothing. 

He picks himself up slowly on reluctant muscles. His clothes are piled neatly on the floor and he tugs them on gingerly. Stepping into the rest of the house is like entering a different world, one made of cozy rugs and earth tones. Stiles’ mouth quirks as he spots Derek across the open concept space, sitting at the breakfast bar in a new sharp suit that clashes with the rest of the decor. 

The driver, Isaac, picks them up in the same SUV as the night before and takes them back to the club where Stiles’ car is still parked. The morning has been pleasant, if a little silent, but Stiles barely has the energy to be concerned given the fact that he’s had rather more of a nap than an actual sleep. He steps out of the parked vehicle without a word. Usually their parting contains more tongue than vowels, but he thinks last night more than covered that front. 

“Stiles,” he turns to the rolled down window and can’t get a read off of Derek’s face behind his sunglasses,, “Isaac will be picking you up from now on. Tuesdays.” 

The SUV pulls away without a moment for him to respond.

Tuesdays. Stiles doesn’t work Tuesdays. Which means he’ll have to drive to the club only to be picked up and driven somewhere else. Waste of time, or it would be if it were for any other reason. 

As it so happens, he quickly grows fond of Tuesdays. 

It’s Friday. Maybe. Fuck, who cares. Stiles is riding a high of performance adrenaline on a hoop, leaning in to every stretch the positions demand with the calming ease of ritual. Acrobatics took awhile for him, lyra and bar fine enough although he drew the line at silks when he fell onto the mat more than his bruised dignity and ass could take, but the work paid off in tenfold if only for the thrill of being high and out of reach. Bending into the bottom curve gives him a view of the floor and in particular the man standing by a booth, underlit in morphing neon tones. Stiles closes his eyes with the sweet image embossed on his mind and twists into a new pose. He doesn’t let himself look at the booth again until the end of his shift. The outline of broad shoulders and a sharp jaw is still there, settled in a seat. 

Giddiness makes him light on his toes, an impish grin on his face he couldn’t wipe away if he tried. His body is thrumming. Rounding the corner his eyes meet Derek’s instantly and their brightness puts a little more sway into Stiles’ saunter. He falters when Derek adjusts to reveal a phone raised to his face, unsure how welcome a second set of ears would be on the type of conversations Derek must hold, but the man inclines his head, smile going crooked like a dare for Stiles to come closer. Stiles doesn’t back down from the challenge. 

“Should have thought that out better, Jackson,” Derek says into the phone as Stiles slides into the booth and under the arm draped across it. Immediately Derek’s fingers find their way to the back of his neck in a firm grip, a surprised snort of laughter Stiles’ never heard before preluding his response, “You’re a wordsmith, afterall.” 

Stiles’ bare foot finds Derek’s ankle under the table and hooks around it playfully. Derek hums, at the phone or at the hand Stiles places on his thigh he can’t be sure. Stiles looks coyly from under his eyelashes with a childish glee at his own cheek, enjoying the quirk of Derek’s lips as he raises an eyebrow in time with Stiles’ hand rising on his thigh. 

“Hm, something needs handling, Jax. Speak soon.” Derek turns to slide his phone into a pocket near his waist and smoothly takes hold of Stiles between the legs. “It’s not Tuesday,” his brows crease like he’s confused how Stiles has suddenly appeared, but the glint in his eyes and the press of his thumb through thin leggings gives him away. Not to mention how Stiles’ been watched for the better part of the night, and yet Derek’s got the nerve to continue, “Must be desperate.”

The grip on Stiles’ neck locks him in place, and god damn, how does Derek so effectively manage to make the edges of his vision turn soft. Derek’s hand under the table slowly strokes him. 

“Saw you on my way, didn’t want to pass without a hello. S’rude.” It’s a struggle for Stiles to keep his voice even. 

Finally he’s graced with a full smile as Derek leans in close, “That what this is? A hello?” 

Stiles’ about to shake right out of his skin with how maddeningly slow and muted the friction of Derek’s hand is, and he plans on doing something about it like possibly dropping trou and letting the man jerk him propper, when a voice pierces through the fog. 

“Derek,” cut sharp like a curse word and Derek freezes like he’s been stabbed with it. 

“Quite busy at the moment,” Derek says while still facing Stiles, all playfulness vanished. 

“I’m sure your sex toy can amuse itself.”

The hands leave Stiles so quickly he feels the room spin. Derek leans back into the booth with both arms spread along the tops of the seat, an arrogant lol to his head and a distasteful sneer settled on his features. The man at the end of the table has a wolf-like stare, muscles coiled like he’s full of energy and holding back. A bell rings in Stiles’ mind. 

“And to what do I owe such a visit?”

“Maybe if you knew how to answer a phone you’d know,” and there, the set of his jaw as he turns away with a jerk for Derek to follow clicks into place. Stiles saw him tearing out of the office a few weeks ago.

The thought is easily dismissed by the more urgent matter on hand: his dick. Or rather, how he’s going to be stuck with his own hand judging by Derek’s grinding teeth as he watches where the man disappeared. He tilts his head at Stiles contemplatively. Brushes his knuckles across Stiles’ cheek and lets his thumb be caught by his bottom lip. Stiles parts his mouth just enough to tease, knowing it’s in vain. 

“A shame,” Derek sighs and he’s out of reach before Stiles can close his mouth. The darkness of the club swallows him quickly. 

Stiles flops back into the buttery soft leather and groans with a hand on the throbbing between his legs. 

It takes a long time for him to be capable of crossing the floor with any dignity. The neon blue hallway seems too close to home and Stiles chokes on an ironic laugh at his own situation. He lets the water run hot in his post-shift shower, thankful for the classy private stalls Derek’s money provides for the employees. Sated but not completely happy, he wanders to his locker and frowns at the balled up articles he finds. Shit, is it really time to do laundry again?

He throws on the least offensive of the mix and jams the rest in his pack with a bit of tetris skill and sheer will. Zipper near splitting he closes the now empty locker door and turns out. Music seeps through the walls, the establishment still open for another few hours, but Stiles’ had something on his mind for a while now and surely Scott’s in a good mood if Derek’s around. 

His hands twist in the straps over his shoulders while he leans into the office, blinking to adjust from oversaturated blue to the warm glow of the lamps scattered in corners. He never fully understood why the decor shifted so drastically in this room until he’d set foot in Derek’s living room. They were of a kind, Martha Stewart would be proud. Scott is draped in the chair behind the desk, arms akimbo and neck painfully arched. Stiles snorts, wondering how long he’s been like this, waiting for someone to notice his despair. 

“You dead?”

“Might as well may be,” Scott groans and both his hands cover his face in an exhausted manner. 

Stiles huffs a laugh, “I’ll start digging the hole. Don’t think you’ll quite fit in the trunk, might have to go in pieces.”

“I’m going to tear the son of a bitch to pieces,” Scott says in a way Stiles starts to think isn’t joking. Scott straightens in the chair only to slump over the desk with his head in his hands, “grateful everyday my dad jumped ship. Only thing family seems good for is fucking shit up.” 

Stiles narrows his eyes. He wonders if Derek’s uncle made an appearance, did something to offend Scott like drinking his perfectly poured pre-shift pour. Stiles likes living so he keeps his mouth shut. Now is not the time to ask about switching shifts. 

“See ya,” he chirps and leaves Scott to his misery. 

Stiles’ kicking pebbles when Isaac pulls into the parking lot that Tuesday. There’s not a lot to the driver besides excellent taste in music, which they periodically discuss in short sentences. Most weeks the drive passes without a word exchanged as some obscure rock band plays through the speakers. Stiles strolls past the front gate without seeing another soul, the front door opening easily under his palm. 

The house is empty, yet he’s got no allusions to thinking there aren’t several pairs of eyes on him, he’s used to the feeling. Not the first, nor the last time he assumes, he arrives before the property’s owner. He settles on the living room floor in a warm glow. The room earns its name, feeling the most lived in despite a fine layer of dust on several of its bold surfaces. For lack of anything better to fill the wait he stretches out with the pleasant thought that he won't be the only one to benefit from it. By the time he’s finished there’s still no sign of Derek. He helps himself to a glass of water, another, moves through a second set of stretches, then goes to take a piss. 

Fluffy towels he’s semi-familiar with sit fresh on a shelf next to a heavenly rainfall shower that he eyes while flushing. What the hell, his pants are already down, and the thought of Derek finding him wet and naked gives him a thrill. The soap smells faintly of lavender. He takes his time to lather it on every inch of skin and works out the tangles of his hair with the expensive products in glass bottles. Rather reluctantly he steps out when his fingertips start to crease. 

Not bothering to redress he falls into the ginormous bed, savouring the duvet he dreams of nearly as often as he does Derek’s cock up his ass. The room is bathed in the watery glow of the pool below, a now comforting rhythm of motion that lulls Stiles into sleep. 

Quick footsteps in heeled shoes warn him seconds before the bedroom door opens. 

“Fuck.”

It’s said below breath, not in pleasant surprise but rather the way one reacts to remembering a forgotten appointment they’re already late for. Stiles stays motionless, letting Derek decide what comes next. The shoes move quietly towards the bed and Stiles is prepared to be yanked out and disappear. Instead items mutedly drop onto the bedside table and the shoes head towards the ensuite. Stiles peers through slitted eyes to catch a glimpse of Derek’s shadowy figure stripping quickly. The shower comes to life. 

Stiles lets his eyes slip back closed, soothed by the running water. He doesn’t register dozing until warm skin presses against the entire length of his body, pushing a moan of delight from having a very naked Derek on top of him. Sharp teeth nip at the exposed back of his neck and when he presses his hips up they sink a little too deep into his neck. He barely has time to gasp at the quick flash of pain before it’s gone, unyielding hands turn him onto his back.

“Show me,” Derek murmurs against his lips, pressing in for a small bite that turns into a ruthless open mouth kiss, “how much did you miss me?”

So Stiles does. Legs wrapped tight around Derek’s waist he puts on a show beneath Derek’s fervent stare. His own hand is fine, but it’s not what he wants. What he needs. 

“Please,” he gasps with eyes squeezed shut and head knocked back, “Please, please,” Derek’s mouth on his jaw interrupts him. 

“Please what, hm?” 

Frustrated tears gather in the corner of his eyes. He looks down at the glaring head of his cock between his cramping fist, looks at the burning eyes above him. 

“Please fuck me, please, shit-” his breath hitches as Derek stills his wrist and pulls it away, gathering both of Stiles’ hands above his head. Stiles sobs at the loss of friction, his dick jerking as pre-come drips down. His ribs can’t hold enough air as he squirms beneath Derek in search of relief. The bastard does nothing but watch. 

After a century one of Derek’s hands presses at his entrance, the way slicked with lube Stiles doesn’t care where from, and two fingers press in at once. It’s not what he needs, but it’s something, and Stiles groans gutterally at the stretch. Not enough thrusts to build a rhythm before the fingers curl and the heat that had been simmering in his veins starts to boil over. 

He’s openly crying, chest heaving at the stimulation that’s intense and yet not enough. Tears stream down the side of his face and his wrists strain against the cage of Derek’s one handed grip. 

“Derek,” and it’s all he can manage, stuck on his lips like a prayer. 

“So desperate,” Derek croons like a praise.

Stiles’ closed his eyes again and when he opens them all he can focus on is Derek’s face, his eyes unwavering as they take in every messy detail. His fingers are incessant inside him. 

He’s halfway through pleading Derek’s name when it hits him like a sucker punch, orgasm ripping through him painfully and loudly. It’s the closest he’s ever been to passing out. 

Come is cooling on his trembling belly by the time Derek swipes a palm through it and uses the same hand to guide himself in. 

“Fuck Stiles, no idea,” Derek snaps his hips into Stiles worn out body, “no idea what you do to me.” 

He’s vicious about it and Stiles can’t decide whether to pull away in overstimulation or relish the feel of Derek finailly filling him the way he’s been desperate for. Derek finishes before Stiles chooses. Fingers sloppily push the leaking come back in until Stiles flinches violently at too much-too much and Derek lets him be. 

After his breathing has returned to a less concerning rate Stiles convinces himself to roll off the bed, regretting the glasses of water he chugged earlier. He takes a moment to stabilize himself during the massive head rush. 

He’s half blind in the dark and doesn’t dare fiddle with the switches he’s never taken the time to familiarize with, too many for a washroom if you ask him, but he doesn’t need much more than the moonlight to notice Derek’s clothes crumpled next to his own by the shower. Black patches of splatter stand out in contrast to their lustrous silk shine. Halfway through emptying his bladder it clicks. Blood. He glances down at the pool of silk again. A lot of blood. 

Derek’s line of work isn’t a secret to him, so Stiles’ not sure why his chest suddenly feels tight. He swallows whatever it is down and tugs at his hair while walking back to the bed. His hand finds the back of his neck and presses curiously at the dull ache he’d forgotten about, no doubt ready to bloom into the shape of Derek’s mouth in the next few days. He’s not sure how to feel about it, so like the rest he ignores it. Derek pays him to dance, and Stiles enjoys the sex on the side, and that’s all that ties them together. Whatever else the enigmatic man does is none of Stiles’ fucking business. 

In the watery dark he slips silently under the duvet behind Derek’s back. The man twists leisurely to face him, tugging until Stiles’ turns over and aligns to be a tightly held little spoon, an arm fixed around him like a vice. In the pale shadows Stiles almost believes the rush of Derek’s breath is the sound of the ocean. 

Night air pierces through the hoodie he’d put on in the naive hope it would be enough to protect him from the dropping temperatures. It chills the sweat on the back of his neck and the hand he lifts his lighter with is shaking. Quickly he sucks in a lung full of smoke and rubs his nose with the back of his thumb. The backside of the club isn’t what he’d typically call an alley, more like an exterior hallway, tiled like Stiles’ only seen in a similar posh driveway and lit in the fancy way that makes it seem like there are no lights. 

He doesn’t turn at the sound of the sound of the door beside him opening, just digs out his pack and a cig for Liam he almost holds out before realizing it’s not the kid standing beside him, but Derek. He jumps so badly he nearly drops both smokes. Derek plucks the extra one from his fingers. Jittery with cold and surprise Stiles stuffs his hands into the deep pocket of his sweater, brain scrambling. Thursday? It’s possibly Friday or Thursday, he’s too cold to choose what sounds most right, but definitely not Tuesday. Derek’s already blowing out smoke when Stiles glances back at him. 

They don’t speak. Slowly Stiles stops expecting him too, he knows how to enjoy a smoke without talking, thanks. By the time he’s near the filter Derek’s voice drags him out of the menial variations of ‘It’s cold as balls’ running through his mind. 

“You’re a good dancer.” Stiles narrows his eyes, but Derek’s not looking at him, he’s looking at the cigarette half ash in his fingers. The silence carries on until Derek stares blase at his quizzical look. “You trained most your life in ballet.” 

Stiles tosses the filter and grinds it under his shoe. 

“Yep, all there in my file. Sure you’ve seen it.” He shrugs, unable to keep the weary edge out of his voice. 

Derek likes to play games, but usually the trajectory is easy to follow. It’s not easy when Derek’s still standing several metres away and making no moves to come closer. Stiles twsits his numb hands in his pocket and wishes Derek would hurry the fuck up with whatever it is he wants to say. 

“The smoking can’t help your stamina,” Derek muses and Stiles rolls his eyes. Of all the people to judge him for unhealthy life choices, Derek really thinks he’s got a leg to stand on?

“Don’t really give a fuck. Started young and stupid, not much else has changed.” 

Derek’s lips thin and he flicks his half smoked butt into the dark. 

“You have family?”

The question flares up unwanted memories of a toddler screaming his name over the sound of his mother yelling about how he’d murdered her the week she died. His dad was in a car crash not too long after, more than blood in his veins. While Stiles was shipped off to foster homes his dad’s been in and out of rehab places. Stiles stopped counting the years since he last saw him.

“What is this Derek?” Stiles looks away and stomps his feet a little to work blood into his toes, “You got a point? I’m freezing my ass off.”

Stiles nearly trips over himself when Derek appears inches from him, the idle look on his face replaced by a coldness that has nothing to with the wind. 

“You ever see my uncle, turn the other way. Understood?” His eyes flick over Stiles’ face until he manages to give a jerky nod. Alright, yeah. Stiles can do that. Derek pulls away, brandishing a new smoke out his own pocket. Stiles watches as the first lungfull lowers his shoulders and he settles, nearly back into the easy stance he had before if it weren’t for the lingering tightness in his eyes. He blows the smoke out smoothly. “Honestly, I trust Scott more, and he’s an idiot.” 

The side glance he gives Stiles undermines the lightness of his voice. 

Stiles nods, “Understood.” 

Then he ducks back into the club and rests his forehead against the cool brick wall, deep breaths helping push down the urge to punch something. The fists he presses into the brick are shaking with the need for another cigarette. 

Stiles is in the middle of breakfast, which would be considered by most people lunch or really an early dinner given the number on the clock, but the nocturnal hours give him the excuse for four o’clock toaster waffles. It also explains why he’s in boxers when he opens the apartment door to find two uniformed cops. The lady is in front and Stiles thinks that’s cute, let the woman do the talking while the dude behind crosses his arms and looks tough.

“Good evening,” and Stiles rolls his eyes because it’s afternoon at best, alright, and he’s a bachelor. Boxers are totally acceptable when you live by yourself. “This is the current residence of Genim Stilinski?”

“Yah, you found him,” it’s not until the words leave his lips that fear spikes his heart rate. He hasn’t seen his dad in years, he couldn’t- surely he’s not-

“You are currently employed by-”

“My dad’s okay?” He wasn’t really following what they were saying given the ringing in his ears, “John Stilinski, this isn’t about him, is it?” 

The cops glance at each other and Stiles wants to gouge their eyes out for taking so long to reply.

“No, sir. We’re here to inquire about your current employment situation. Did you know there’s an ongoing investigation into the owner of your workplace?”

Stiles lets go of the air he was holding and slumps against the door frame in a shrug. He didn’t know, not that it surprises him. Not that he cares. 

“These are severe allegations of human-trafficking. Any information you can give us will help.”

Stiles blinks slow, “Who you speaking about?” 

“Your current employer, Derek Hale.” Stiles tugs at his hair, it’s getting long again. After a moment where he fails to fill the silence the lady cop continues, “We were hoping you could answer a few questions concerning-”

“Don’t know what you’re coming to me for, never met the guy.” He says with a tight lipped smile. 

They share another look between them and damn, Stiles’ wants to punch them every time they give in to cliches like that. 

“Sir, we have information stating you’ve been seen in his company on several-”

“Don’t know the guy. Sorry.” 

The door closes with a click and he waits. Either they have a warrant and will break in to arrest him, or they won't. Footsteps trail away and it does nothing to ease the ringing that’s returned to his ears. Trafficking. 

Surely not. Derek’s a criminal, yeah. There are a lot of things that fall under criminal activity: drugs, weapons, black market business of all kinds. Stiles had assumed in a vague and undefined way he never truly thought about that Derek’s money and power came from one or several of these things but not… not people. 

Every moment he’s felt Derek’s hands on him passes through his mind. The way he says Stiles’ name as he comes and presses it into his skin, everytime. The fingers around his throat.

He barely crashes in front of the toilet in time for the first rush of bile.


	2. Loyalty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When you're just like 'fuck it!' and post the chapter.

After the cops leave his doorway Stiles spends the evening talking himself into showing up for work and adding to the collection of cigarette butts on his apartment fire escape. If he doesn’t show Scott will call him, and he doesn’t know if he could get away with some half-assed excuse on a man he considers a friend. That way of thinking is confusing though, because Scott works for Derek, and has worked for him much longer than he’s known Stiles. So if Derek’s really… Well whatever he’s doing, Scott’s a part of it. They’re all in on it. His stomach twists and he’s rather grateful there’s nothing left in it. 

By the time it’s well and truly dark he slips into the club quietly, glad for his skill in walking feather light, unseen on the edges of the room. Neon lights and low bass do nothing to distract his mind.

Allegations. What did that even mean? Did they have proof, or were they throwing something out there and hoping it would stick? Why would they come to Stiles’ door? They must have spoken to someone else. Stiles’ eyes scan through the dark room and linger over every face, a handful of known employees and regulars, but too many to count remain nameless. Derek didn’t usually approach him at work anymore, a few quick exceptions here and there, but since they’re scheduled Tuesdays Stiles has spent every hour he was being paid earning it on the floor. Who saw them together?

Had they shown him their badges? He can’t recall. He’d been too worried about it having something to do with his dad, and then he’d spent most of his focus not punching them in their condescending little faces. Secrets get you killed in this world, that much he knows. Goddamnit, if it’s a test then he needs to make a decision. Quickly. 

After possibly the worst shift of his career Stiles is no closer to quelling the uncertainty buzzing like a hornets nest in the pit of his stomach and his annoyance for having to keep flicking hair out of his eyes is not helping. Filled with unsettled energy he slaps the door to the back hall open, pissed off for no particular reason to find it orange. Why can’t they just fucking choose a colour and be done with it. 

Not until he’s swiped his hair back from his face does he see Boyd standing guard outside of the office, and that’s great. Perfect. Derek’s here. And because Stiles has a penchant for making bad decisions he leans against the wall opposite of the good little soldier. The cool brick raises goosebumps on the bare skin of his back.

“Don’t tell me, Derek’s finally taken your advice and moved on with Scott.” 

Boyd’s face is more impassive than a Buckingham Guard. Although he’d been right, the office walls do muffle sound much better than a storeroom, it doesn’t stop Stiles from catching the muted cacophony of chaos that erupts behind it’s door, something falling or being thrown before the booming of male voices escalates. Stiles’ eyebrows lift in surprise. Maybe he’d been spot on, but he hadn’t taken Scott for the aggressive type. 

Boyd gives him a bone, “Family reunion.” 

As if on cue the door flies open. 

“Peter,” Stiles’ never heard Derek’s voice cut like that, filled with rage. 

A man, the predator with sharp eyes, rips past Stiles and Boyd and out of sight. Stiles looks into the office and sees Scott leaning against the desk with crossed arms and an absolutely livid Derek. They are the room's only occupants. Stiles looks back at where the man stormed off. Peter. He feels like he’s being tricked. 

That guy? He’s supposed to believe the fit guy who could practically fill in as James Bond was Derek’s uncle? 

He shakes his head and breathes through his nose. Okay, sure, go with it Stiles. Don’t ask questions, do what you’re told, get the fuck out of here once the chances of a bullet to the back is less then ninety percent. As soon as the thought crosses his mind he realises it’s his only real option. He needs to get out.

Given the pile of objects on the floor next to the barren desktop behind Scott and the current distressed state of Derek’s clothing, Stiles is less than enthused about voluntarily approaching him. He pushes away from the wall to stand straight anyway. He has to do it. Secrets get you killed, but messengers didn’t get their fair chances either. He rolls the dice and catches Derek’s wild eyes.

“Gotta speak with you.”

Derek flicks his eyes away to fix the button of his neatly cut shirt, “Not now.”

Derek continues to straighten his clothes until they’re back in their usual impeccable shape. 

Stiles puts force behind his voice, “Derek.”

The man brushes past, Boyd in his steps. Stiles grinds his teeth while watching them go. 

A chuckle comes from the office where Scott’s bent down to retrieve an intact crystal glass. He places it on the empty desk while going round to snatch a bottle from one of the drawers. He pours as he speaks.

“Think you’ll have to wait if you’re looking for a good time.” He shoots Stiles a stupid smile. 

“Piss off.” 

Stiles shrugs off to the showers. Scott’s words make his gums itch. Maybe because Stiles’ started questioning their friendship. Maybe because, although being judged about his lifestyle isn’t exactly new, he’s never felt degraded when talking to him. Possibly he’s over sensitive because Derek’s brush off stings, but that can’t be it because he doesn’t give a damn what Derek does. 

But he does, this tiny needle of a thought reminds him. It’s completely absurd due to the decent part of Stiles that’s utterly repulsed by the man. And yet, part of him still wants to feel the weight of those eyes and know he’s got their full attention. For them to sweep past like he was nothing more than a part of the decor was infuriating.

Frustration builds as he rushes through his post-shift ritual, not bothering to dry off before shoving his clothes on. Liam wanders in while he’s rooting through his belongings.

“Looking a little tense, Stiles.” Liam calls as he swaggers in and comes to lean against the locker next to him. “Champ gave me something that might take the edge off,” he taps a small ziplocked bag. 

“Get that shit out of my face,” Stiles snarls and yanks everything from his locker onto the floor. He can’t believe Liam would dare bring something in here when Scott was known to throw fists if he suspected someone was using anywhere near the place.

Liam chuckles and tucks it away, “Okay, alright. You at least wanna go for a smoke before heading out?” 

Stiles pauses long enough to whip a crumpled pack from the mess of his belongings at Liam’s head. 

“Jeez, man. Hey,” he pouts down at the crumpled cardboard, “it’s empty.”

“Get your own fucking smokes then.” 

Liam raises his hands innocently and Stiles’ had about enough of him, enough of everybody, so it’s a blessing when he glances back and sees the kid smartly vanished. Stiles throws everything in his bag, jerks around in a hasty check nothing’s left in a corner of some change room or stuck under a seat, and jams damp feet into his shoes when he can’t find any socks. 

He blows through the back exit. A short walk across the way he’s got his car parked in an employee slot. The tail lights flash in greeting as he uses the fob in his pocket, the one not holding his phone. Fuck Derek for being a bastard, fuck Scott and his fucking smarmy smile, fuck Boyd because fuck everybody, that’s why. A growl of annoyance escapes as he shrugs off his bag and reaches for the car door. 

His hand never reaches the handle. 

Weight comes down on his shoulders and drags him down with a shove like a trainwreck. The side of his face slams into the unforgiving pavement when his hands are too slow to catch him. The world spins. There’s no time to react before a heavy boot gets him in the ribs, knocking his breath and any hope of yelling for help out of him. Stiles’s palms scrabble frantically in blind effort to get himself out of reach, but his assailant grabs him by the wet strands of his hair and drags him in. He’s too focussed on trying to twist out of the iron hold to see one of the boots his chest had been acquainted with earlier come down on his leg. With a crack it crushes his ankle. 

Stiles yells at the hot white pain. He stills, pinned and panting in pain. 

“He took the wrong girl.” 

Stiles flinches at the spit the venomous words carry. A punch lands across the cut side of his face and he jerks with it, nausea intensifying. 

“All his pretty things are gonna disappear until my cousin is back. Starting with you.” Stiles gives a small cry as he’s dropped, curling into himself after another brutal kick to the chest. “First, you’ve got a message to deliver.” 

Stiles can’t tell which direction the guy disappears in, can’t even see past the blood dripping into his eyes. He lays in a pathetic heap and presses his raw fingertips into the ground in an attempt to keep it beneath him. The stupid thing, the stupidist thing, is that his phone is still in his pocket. He takes shallow breaths that shoot pain into his ribs. He’s been outside for five minutes, most. 

Several attempts later his fingers stutter across the screen in the right places to pull up the number he needs. With a wince he holds the device to the ear he can still hear from. It rings seven times, each one like a sonic boom inside his head.

“Scott,” he croaks, interrupting whatever greeting or joke he hadn’t followed, “I’m out back. I need… “ his breath hitches on a particularly potent throb from his chest, “I need help.”

Stiles manages to push himself up against the tyre of his car by the time the clubs’ back door spills out orange light and Scott. His boss peers into the dark for a moment before lowering his gaze to find Stiles on the ground.

“Holy shit.”

Yeah, that about sums it up. 

Scott gets him to his feet with a filthy amount of cursing from both of them. Stiles leans heavily into his side, his left foot not completely useless but it sure isn’t happy about carrying more weight than absolutely necessary. In a slow progression where Stiles alternates chanting to himself not to throw up or pass out Scott leads them to the office and settles him on the leather couch. Stiles closes his eyes to fight against a wave of nausea. Scott’s voice floats around him. Must be… Must be on the phone… 

“Stiles,” he tries to blink his eyes open while fingers snap near his face, “hey, Stiles. Eyes open, okay? You need to stay awake.”

A plastic water bottle is pressed into his hands and he gets a decent portion of it down his shirt. He struggles to force down whatever succeeded in finding his mouth. Pain pulses through him when he chokes and that is enough of that. He pours some water into his cut up palm and splashes it onto his face, but it’s not enough and his shirt is already a lost cause so he dumps more water onto his stomach and uses the soaking fabric to wipe the blood out of his eye. The gash on his brow is still oozing, he can feel it running down the side of his face, but it’s slower now. Finally his vision is clear enough to see Scott bent close in front of him, eyes scanning Stiles’ face with a grimace. 

“Really messed you up.” Scott doesn’t mince his words. 

A bark of laughter escapes Stiles and he groans at the jolt it gives his ribs. The water to the face helped him shake the drowsiness, but things still aren’t normal. He can smell the alcohol on Scott’s breath and when he glances over the crystal glass from earlier still stands half full on the desk. Stiles remembers watching him pour it. Was that really so recently?

“Here,” three pills drop into his hand. Stiles winces them down. 

Scott disappears, back before Stiles thinks to search for where he went and he catches sight of the bright red kit in his hands. Stiles considers how often he’s seen Scott bend rules and doesn’t know if he trusts the man with something like healthcare. He supposes he doesn’t have many options though, so he doesn’t speak up when Scott tosses the thing between Stiles’ feet and crouches down in front of him again, adjusting to throw his phone next to it when he mutes a call. 

“You got scissors in there?”

“Think so,” Scott glances at the kit like he’s never seen one before, really instilling confidence with a shrug, ”why?”

Stiles smooths the wet tangle of hair back from his face and feels the echo of the severe grip that held him down. 

As casually as possible he says, “Overdue for a trim.”

Scott snorts like it’s a joke while he snaps on a pair of gloves. He uses stinging alcohol wipes on Stiles’ torn palms, none too careful about digging around to get out the tiny pebbles lodged in them. When he goes for the mark on his face Stiles tilts his head down so he can get to it fully. On the floor Scott’s phone lights up as a call comes in. Even upside down the four faces in the contact photo are familiar, Scott and Derek got arms around each other in the middle with Peter and Boyd standing to the sides, ecstatic grins all around. 

“Where’s that?” 

Scott’s hands don’t stop rubbing grime off his face, “Grand re-opening of the club when Derek rebranded. Hired you not long after.” 

Were they actually that young once? Stiles twitches his fingers while doing the math and concludes he’s been with the club for four years. Had he looked like that, too? He squints at the image. He really hopes not, they look like children. Stiles stares at the phone until it goes dark, the call missed. 

“You known him awhile?” The words come out as he thinks them, not really planned. They’ve never spoken about it. 

“Derek? Yeah, from school, won regionals together. Boyd came in not long after.” Scott says distractedly as he works on painfully cleaning out the cut just the same way he’d done Stiles’ hands. Neither mention the tears still slowly tracking down his cheeks.

Stiles chews the bright spot on his lip where it’s split. He’s spent his life not asking questions, perhaps he’s used up all his self control. 

“Peter?”

He winces at a particularly vicious prod from Scott, who finally pulls away.

“Package deal. Not a lot we could do about him.” Scott rolls his eyes and speaks around a bandage wrapper he tears open aggressively with his teeth. He spits out the torn end. “Peter came in after Derek had already sprung free from Deucalion, said he hadn’t heard about him until then. Duke adopted Derek pretty young, he’s the one Derek inherited it all from.” 

Not just the club, Stiles gathers, but everything. Scott presses the bandage firmly in place as the phone lights up again. Stiles looks away from it, the happiness in the photo makes them look fragile. 

“You wanna get that?” 

Scott slips off the gloves and stands, ignoring the phone and immediately crossing to the desk for the crystal glass. 

“When you known him as long as I have, you know there’s no point.” He speaks while pouring, then motions at Stiles with the glass in a salut before tipping it back smoothly. 

Stiles squints, unsure if it’s the concussion or simply Scott that’s confusing him, “What?”

Scott smiles and tilts his head conspiringly like it’s an inside joke, “He’s predictable.”

The office door slams open. Stiles jumps and winces at the flare up of pain, the water bottle he’d almost forgotten about in his hand spilling over his pants. 

Like the devil Derek’s appeared with fire in his eyes. 

“Your phone?” He speaks in the low tone of rolling thunder. 

Scott shrugs, relaxed, “Slipped outta my pocket.” 

Derek gives him a considering glare before facing Stiles. For the first time Stiles is acutely aware the man is carrying a gun, and it would be a lie to say he didn’t feel fear.

“Who was it?” The words are succinct and quiet, more deadly for the control behind them. 

Two green eyes stare in rapt focus. He flinches when Derek steps closer with a raised hand to gently stroke his face, a motion he’s done a hundred times. It’s kinda nice, actually, but looking at him only reminds Stiles of bile.

He chews his split lip and answers in a mulish mumble, “Dunno.”

Derek’s jaw clicks, a crack in his mask. 

“Stiles, who touched you.” He demands in a slowly enunciated way, hand still so gentle on his face.

The anger Stiles started harbouring hours ago reignites behind his tongue. Fuck, he’s such an idiot. Any questions about the legitimacy of the police inquiry were eradicated when the guy in the parking lot spoke. He jostles out of Derek’s light hold. 

“Why? Could barely look at me earlier, now you think you own me?”

Screw the gun, Stiles’ fed up with it all. If Derek wants to shoot him he will. 

“Boyd is mine,” Derek snarls with a hand towards the impassive man behind him, “Scott, Peter, mine as well.” Derek stabs a finger towards Scott and then at Stiles. “You are mine, Stiles. Someone hurts you, it's not only a strike on you, it’s an attack on me.” 

He looks seriously upset now. Good.

Living people. Derek sells living, breathing human beings with families and futures. Stiles reminds himself of it as he struggles to his feet and shoves Derek away when he tries to step closer. That’s the whole reason Stiles has to use the wall to stand in the first place, Derek took someone’s cousin. Now Stiles’ going to let him get whatever he deserves.

“Piss off, Derek. The reason I asked to speak was to quit. I’m not your dancer, I’m not your anything.” 

He makes it less than a step before Scott, the bastard, speaks up, “I wouldn’t let him do that. He’s concussed, Derek.”

It’s Boyd who cuts in front of him with a voice too calm for the situation, “Sit down, please. Before you make it worse.”

Stiles should keep walking, should get as far away as his bank account can get him, but standing truly has disoriented him. Belatedly he questions the strength of the pills he took, he doubts he could even make it out the door nonetheless to his car. He falls back into the couch with his head in his hands. This is so fucked.

“Scott, you have a club to run,” Derek says from somewhere above him. 

Stiles hears the clink of the glass set on the desk and Scott’s well soled shoes march across the room. 

“Should I call Deaton?” Boyd asks.

“No, I’ll handle this.”

The hovering heat of Boyd melts away after Derek’s dismissal and the door softly shuts. Then it’s him and Derek. In a room. The silence feels like a vacuum sucking out every last drop of oxygen. 

He hears the small shift of Derek’s clothes. It’s a long time before he speaks.

“How old am I?”

“Don’t know,” Stiles says to the floor.

“Where am I from?”

“I don’t know, Derek,” he sighs. 

He sits back into the couch, ribs aching with the movement. Derek’s on the other side of the room with arms crossed, leaning casually against the wall. He’s unrecognizable from the Derek in the photo. Thin lines crease his eyes, a twist to his mouth, his whole stance created to depict the inherent confidence that never leaves him. To Stiles he just looks tired. 

“How long have you worked here?” 

“Four years.” Clearly Derek’s going somewhere with this, hopefully he gets there before Stiles passes out. 

“How long have we been having sex?”

Stiles’ brain stalls out a moment at the bluntness in Derek’s words. The intensity of Derek’s words when Stiles’ off his mind in his presence, how overwhelming it can be in the moment, it seems rather paltry to narrow it down to just sex. He tracks through his brain, fingers twitching again as he counts it up, “Six months, maybe.” 

Derek’s eyes burn through him, “You think it’s coincidence? You’ve been employed for so long and been in my house, and yet you don’t know my birthday?”

It’s not. He knows it’s not, because if there’s one thing Stiles’ good at it’s not asking questions. His teeth tear a small piece of raw skin from his lips. Twelve, Stiles reminds himself. There could be twelve other people if Derek kept a busy schedule. Somehow he doesn’t think that’s true and he doesn’t think he’s believed it for a while. 

Derek shifts against the wall with tense shoulders, “What do I do?” 

“You own a club.” 

“No, Stiles. What do I do?” And there’s a dare in that voice.

Stiles hears the words of the copper, ‘ongoing investigation,’ and the man in the car park spitting into his face, ‘my cousin,’ running through his mind. He doesn’t mean for it to come out like a question, and it doesn’t. 

“Human trafficking.” It’s an accusation.

Derek nods, like it’s nothing, “Yes.” 

“You filthy son of a-”

Burning instinctive rage propels Stiles out of his seat only for him to be shoved back into the couch. He catches his breath while Derek looks down at him. Derek pushes his hair out his face and plants his hands on his hips. 

“This is the issue with you, Stiles. You don’t ask questions.” Derek’s started to pace a bit so he looks down at him sideways. “I’m rather generous. I’ll give you answers you didn’t ask for, just to be nice.” 

Stiles glares at him, a hand pressed to the worst of his chest in hopes it’ll ease the stabbing sensation where Derek’s hand had been. 

“We’ll start with who. Kids in foster situations worse than yours, kids on the street with parents strung up on the flavour of the week.” Derek paces with his fancy heeled shoes clicking against the floor. It doesn’t surprise him Derek knows his upbringing, would be rather stupid of him not too. “Where? Where do I send them? Do you know the costs of adoption? Understand the legal battles couples contend with? People with beautiful homes and stable jobs being denied due to prejudice.”

He spins to Stiles with an expectant face. So, okay. Maybe it’s questionable, but it’s not opium and sex dens. Breath stutters out of Stiles’ chest and takes all of his energy with it. He slumps and rubs his nose with the backside of his thumb. The emotional whiplash is leaving him more disorinted than his attempt at standing. He’s not decided how he feels concerning it all just yet, but there’s relief unwinding in his stomach. 

“The police came by,” Stiles admits. 

Derek’s voice hardens. “I’m aware.”

Stiles lifts his head to catch his eye, “They were pretty serious.”

Derek perches on the front of the desk when he reaches it, taps his fingers on its slick top. “Someone moved into the neighbourhood. They’re running business too sloppy to stay under the radar.”

“Why do they think it’s you?” The absence of the burning anger left room for drowsiness to seep in and muddle things, slurs his words. Stiles has to keep reminding himself to keep his eyes open as they speak. 

“Because they’re not complete idiots. My predecessor was well known for his success, but they can’t pin down why. Pains their minds trying to understand where the money comes from. Something new pops up and it’s easy to point the finger in my direction, and lazy of them.” He says the last part like he’s more offended the cops aren’t doing their jobs well enough to arrest him for the right reasons.

The couch shifts next to Stiles. He’s missed Derek moving but his bones are too heavy to react to his sudden presence. 

“Now I’ve given answers, I expect one in return.” Derek lays his arm across the back of the couch, voice dropping in tone. “Who hurt you?”

Stiles’ kinda thankful for the heat radiating from Derek when he finds himself leaning into his side. Thermostats gotta be shot, Stiles is freezing. 

“Said you’d taken his cousin, wants to take your pretty things away until she’s returned. Didn’t have time to introduce ourselves after that, m’afraid.” The words take time coming out of his mouth, stopping and starting as he tries to keep his eyes open and mouth working at the same time. “Had a tattoo. A swirl, big on his wrist.”

Stiles feels Derek hum the way he does when thinking about something he doesn’t like. “Blakes band of merry misfits. I recently received a gift from their most violent member.” Something is draining tension out of Stiles’ bones. It’s possibly fingers on the back of his neck. Might be the vibration of Derek’s voice where they’re touching, the words mostly lost on him. ”I don’t have the girl, and if they knew your name and shift hours they know where you live.” Feather light fingers brush against his cheek. Stiles lost the battle, his head is lolled onto Derek’s arm as he dozes. “Stay with me tonight. 

Stiles’ too tired to argue. He does protest when Derek moves and takes away the heat he’d been burrowing into. 

“How’d they know? ‘bout me,” he mumbles. It’s been scratching at his mind since the beginning of the night. 

“How do you think, Stiles? There’s a leak.” Derek says it with less inflection than most comment on the weather. Unlike before his even tone isn’t forced, and it chills Stiles more for it. Derek’s talking about being stabbed in the back and yet he’s standing unconcerned. Stiles’ almost worried for the poor guy who dared slip up, he’s got a feeling Derek’s not the type to hand out second chances. 

“One more question,” Derek’s still looking at him, never stopped really, but now they’re close enough for Stiles to catch the small crinkle of confusion on his brow. There’s a seriousness in his tone that clenches in Stiles’ gut, awaiting something grand. “Where are your socks?”

Delirium is to blame for the way Stiles starts to giggle. Despite the frown on Derek’s face there’s a familiar tug to his lips while he watches, and Stiles laughs a little louder to see it curl. 

Stiles tosses a hand onto Derek’s thigh, not in seduction, but to help steel himself for the great pain he knows getting to the car is going to bring. 

“Take me home, Derek.” 

Stiles wishes he didn’t remember the trip to Derek’s house. It was the purest form of agony, the painkillers doing little more than making him nauseous and slow. Every crack in the pavement shifted his bones regardless how careful Isaac tried to be after Derek shot him a scathing look. 

By the time he falls into the mattress he’s close to asking for a bullet just to make the throbbing on the side of his face end. Having Derek wake him up every hour, no matter how gently, does little to convince him life is worth continuing. 

The sun is already reclining into the hills when he stumbles out of tangled sheets and shuffles into the house. The aches are starting to settle in, but he manages with the reliable assistance of the walls. Seeing Boyd perched on the couch is both surprising and yet not at all. 

“Sorry if we woke you,” Boyd says honestly but distracted, his hands fisted together in front of him. 

Stiles follows his gaze through the glass doors to see Derek standing by the pool with a phone to his ear. 

“Nah, it’s cool.” Stiles mumbles, distracted by the way Derek’s standing. “What’s he doing?” 

Boyd sighs. 

“Convincing his uncle not to commit murder.” Stiles arches his eyebrow at the acidity. Boyd’s face is dark as he sits back on the couch to look up at him better. “There have been a few petty surprises thrown our way, but the most recent mess makes sense now we know they’re thinking we took one of theirs. Kid’s absolutely psychotic, gonna have nightmares for weeks after that one”

Stiles hums in a way that could be a question if Boyd’s being generous. 

Boyd looks him in the eyes, “Dogs.”

“Dogs?” Stiles thinks he might still be sleeping. Or high. Possibly both. 

Boyd rubs his forehead like it's troubling him just to remember, “Five of them. Decapitated with blood all over the place. Complete disaster.”

“So… “ Stiles’ missing something here, not understanding how one missing girl equals five dead dogs. 

“One of the Blake’s boys, he’s a stupid jock with a real taste for violence, he’s the one been hammering us with wild inconveniences. Derek’s often too busy to handle them himself but Peter insisted we come down to see that one. There were names on them. Derek, Peter, myself, Scott…” 

“And you.” Derek steps in from the patio. 

The words he understands, but the meaning takes a frozen moment to sink in. Stiles’ name on a dead animal, left on the ground at Derek’s feet. 

Starting with you, he recalls. 

Stiles swallows thickly and reevaluates his life choices. He took the job because the more exclusive the club the higher the tips, the cleaner the facility, the better benefits. It hadn’t mattered to him who ran it. He started sleeping with Derek because… well because it was Derek. The man was magnetic, Stiles really can’t be faulted for looking the other way when it came to the fine print that came along with it. Warnings he should have read. He remembers the blood soaked silk shining in moonlight and wonders if this is what Derek was dealing with right before he found Stiles in his bed. 

“He didn’t agree?” Boyd looks to Derek, his voice shaking Stiles out of his mind. 

Derek answers only with a stiff shake of his head.

“You’ll be staying here until this is sorted, Stiles. We can discuss it further later, for now stay in the house. If you need something, call Isaac and he’ll have it delivered.” Derek grabs the dark jacket from beside Boyd and slips into it as he goes, the all black attire a rather severe choice. Stiles watches him walk away while doing the middle button and Boyd sighs, standing to follow. 

Stiles is left drowning in pyjama pants a size too large in the empty living room. 

“Where are you going?” Stiles asks after Boyd’s halfway to the front door Derek’s disappeared through. 

He receives a glance over broad shoulders, “To stop a murder, or commit one. Never sure with him.” 

Stiles doesn’t know if he’s talking about Peter or Derek. Perhaps both. 

He’s been in this house more times than he can count now, but knowing he’ll be staying here indefinitely puts a weird taste in his mouth. There’s something else itching at him. Something about Derek’s brisk way when talking and his sudden departure. He hadn’t looked at Stiles once. 

There’s a morning a few days later that Stiles wakes to find the bed empty, to be expected at this point, unlike the loud voices coming from the other side of the wall. He limps out of the room to find the backs of Derek and Boyd sitting at the kitchen counter. They haven’t seen him so he hovers just outside the bedroom, on the edge of ducking back in and pretending he’s still asleep.

“He’s been like this ever since-”

“It’s not him.” Derek’s raised voice cuts Boyd off, his words accompanied by his open hands slapping the marble. “I will not keep having this conversation. Ludicrous as it might seem, Peter’s loyalty is not questioned, understood?” 

Stiles holds his breath in the silence that follows, terrified of moving an inch. There’s rage in Derek’s voice and he’s half worried Boyd’s not going to say anything. Boyd might walk behind Derek, but Stiles can’t think of a time he’s actually seen Boyd defer to him. If anything they’d acted as a partnership, like they were family discussing things on equal terms. 

“Understood.” It’s uttered stiffly, Boyd’s back gone tense. 

The sound of Derek pushing his stool to stand gives Stiles time to regain his breath. Derek stalks around the kitchen somewhat pointlessly, hands through his hair and then his hips, again to his hair that’s already pushed back. He settles leaning onto the worktop with both palms down and peers at Boyd. 

“What’s the list?” His voice is back to its controlled even pace and Stiles has to focus to hear it from where he is. 

“Jackson,” Boyd holds up a finger that has Derek quickly shaking his head. 

“Too invested long term.”

“Theo, Isaac, Deaton.” With each name Boyd lists, Derek shakes his head.

“None of them benefit from a turf war, Jennifer’s succession, or our communal fall.”

Boyd sighs, “They’re the only people who know enough to do the things Peter’s been dealing with, not counting the five of us.” He rubs the centre of his nose in a way that makes Stiles think he might wear glasses. 

“Did Jackson manage to speak with any of the Blake boys?”

“No. They’ve made their minds about it all. The only thing stopping them is the trouble locating Stiles. Haven’t located the girl either.”

“And the police?”

“They’ve settled a bit, but we can’t relocate anyone until they either pick someone up or start another case to split focus. Too many eyes.” 

Derek hums as he thinks, staring down like the marble has answers. A moment of silence so long Stiles thinks he’s going to suffocate if someone doesn’t speak. He hears the minute shifts of their weight, giving him the general impression they’d hear any escape attempt he could make. 

“We’re being played.” Derek says. 

Boyd’s stool slides against the floor when he pushes away from the bar to stand and Stiles sees it as his chance to disappear.

A bath in the ensuite’s grande tub is the perfect thing to distract him from skipping breakfast. Half immersed in boiling water he replays Derek’s adamant dismissal of Peter’s possible deception. It had been so sudden, so fierce, he worries it has more to do with emotion than reason. Maybe that’s what Boyd thinks too, maybe that’s why, if Stiles followed, he’d brought it up before. 

Every time Derek’s uncle was mentioned he’d felt the tension and it only intensified when the two were in the same building. Stiles didn’t know their past, barely had a sketched out idea of their relationship from Scott, but there was no denying they had one thing in common. The scowl they wore when face to face was identical. 

Stiles lets the hot water swallow him whole and drown out the thoughts of the overheard conversation. Derek would deal with it. When it was all over Stiles would go home and figure out the rest of his life, but that was a future Stiles problem and not something to worry about now. It’s how he’d gotten through most of his life and it would get him through this. He stays in the tub until the water is lukewarm and the house is empty.

They aren’t fucking. Two weeks of sleeping in the same bed, but even that was only on the nights Derek’s actually returned after disappearing in the early morning, and they’ve barely touched. He’d been fine with it to start, made sense when he was as bruised up as he was, but the deep body aches had started to fade and with the absence of pain came more focus to think. He’s not some forlorn lover left to pine the days away, not really his place to even be concerned on the nights Derek doesn’t come back, but he is. Concerned. There was only so much time he could spend lounging by the pool and eating free food that the rest of the time he was left bored and, well. Rather horny. 

So it was a bit of a piss off that Derek barely looked at him before getting into bed and turning the other way, especially when Stiles knew they were both naked. Derek’s usually the one to instigate things with something as subtle as a look, a touch, a tilt of his head. Now Stiles stares at his muscled back in the ghostly light of the room, never quite dark even when the night surrenders itself to being halfway to morning. 

Stiles does what he’s been wanting to do for several nights and reaches out with a steady hand. 

“What are you doing?” Derek’s voice is so low it almost disappears. 

“Thinking about you.” Stiles admits boldly while his hand smooths over the ridge of a shoulder blade. 

Derek murmurs something into his pillow but he doesn’t tense or pull away so Stiles drifts closer until he’s inches from being pressed against him. The tip of his nose greets the soft skin of Derek’s neck and shoulder. His hand curls around Derek’s ribs and starts to veer down. He sucks lightly at Derek’s pulse point and is a tad relieved to find Derek half hard under his hand. Encouraged he nips at the skin under his tongue and a groan rumbles through Derek’s chest. 

Derek turns beneath his hand and rolls him over so they’ve switched places, Stiles’ back pressed against Derek’s chest and a firm hand on his hip to keep him there. 

“Stay,”

Derek dips away for long seconds as Stiles' nerves run hayware with anticipation. Finally, fucking finally. Derek returns with the wet slide of his cock along Stiles’ ass, a strong hand on Stiles' hip as he pushes in between his thighs. He grazes Stiles’ balls every time he pushes in, the glide smooth along Stiles’ sensitive skin and it’s maddening. Their skin grows tacky as they move against each other, Stiles’ mouth parted as Derek’s hand takes hold of him in time with his thrusts between his thighs. It’s incredible. He opens his eyes and sees an empty room. It’s not enough. 

“Derek,” he moans, “I need… I need to see… “ He doesn’t get the rest out as the body behind him withdraws, tugging at his hip for him to follow. Stiles rolls over to find Derek breathing hard on his back, damp hair falling into his face and wet cock against his stomach. 

“C’mon,” 

He doesn’t need to be told twice. Stiles swings a leg over Derek to straddle his lap and moans as their dicks glance each other. Derek gets one hand up to steady him and the other wrapped around them both. Stiles watches as he rolls his hips to push between the friction of Derek’s palm and his dick, ignoring the ache in his ankle in favour of the addictive heat of Derek’s skin. His eyes flick to Derek’s jaw, his parted lips, his intense eyes looking down at his own hand. It’s still not enough. 

He leans onto Derek’s chest and crushes their lips together. Derek kisses as he always does, like he’s in an argument and he’s winning. Stiles’ hips have lost their rhythm but Derek’s broad hand still works him and it’s perfect. Stiles cuts the kiss off in a gasp as he comes, panting wetly against Derek’s jawline. 

Derek’s hand moves on himself and Stiles plans to go down on him as soon as he gets his breath back, but Derek’s stomach tenses beneath him and he watches Derek bite his lip as he finishes. The ache in Stiles’ ankle won't be ignored now that he’s come down from the high so he rolls off into the sheets. Derek is up immediately. 

He returns with a damp cloth and wipes them down in his usual prompt manner. They settle back into place. 

For the first time the silence between them feels uneasy. Stiles blinks the one eye not squished against a pillow until he can see the vague shape of Derek across the bed, where he’s been for the last two weeks. It still wasn’t enough, he realizes. 

“Derek,” he whispers in a serious tone he isn’t used to using and receives a soft grunt in return. “What are you doing?”

“Sleeping.”

Stiles’ caught off guard by the swell of anger in him at the brush off. He’s been quiet for two weeks and now he’d really like to know what the fuck is going on. 

He sits up on an elbow, no longer whispering, “No, you’re not.”

“No, I’m not.” Derek turns to face him, the first time he’s looked Stiles in the eyes since he’s been injured. Stiles waits for him, not knowing what question he’d even start with if he were to try to get something out of him. What Derek starts with is a shock. 

“The first time I saw someone die was the first time I watched Peter kill someone.” Stiles stills, trying not to react and deter Derek from continuing. “He was protecting me, got blood all over my face because the guy was so close. Neither of us were even phased in the moment. Dealt with the body like Deucalion taught me, had a shower, watched some shit movie afterwards. I woke up crying, it took that long for the shock to kick in. Peter, he stayed up all night with me because… ”

Derek looks away to the ceiling, blinking more than normal. Stiles feels like the expression he’s witnessing is rarer than any gemstone. 

“That’s what you do for the people you love,” Stiles finishes for him quietly. His memory of the sheer terror caused by the cops and dreading something happened to the girls still twists his stomach every time he comes close to thinking about it. 

Derek swallows thickly. “He’s been protecting me since he came back. Boyd, Scott, they get most of it, but they weren’t the ones holding my hand. He’s the only person in the world who knows what I went through with Deucalion.” His eyes stare into the darkness like he can see his past there and doesn’t like the look of it. “Peter’s amazing with the kids, but he cared too much. Wouldn’t let things go if they mattered to him, and a lot of things did. Some of them started to slip out his hands.”

Derek rolls completely to his back now, voice turning dark the more he talks. “Her name was Lydia. Peter had a ring picked out and the whole deal. I don’t know the details, but someday she seemed to disappear. Peter hasn’t cared about much since.”

“Is that why Boyd doesn’t trust him? Because he doesn’t care?” The questions out before he thinks better of it, but Derek doesn’t ask how he knows Boyd’s stance. Instead he meets Stiles’ eyes again, face a shallow outline in the blue light. 

“When Lydia went missing Peter went off the rails, and I’d grown a little too dependent on him to get me out of trouble. I was in pretty bad shape when Boyd found me, he had to carry me at the end for a bit. Peter didn’t pick up the phone for a week, I don’t think Boyd’s ever forgiven him for letting a stranger sit in the place he should have been when it was touch and go.”

Stiles can’t imagine it. Derek in a hospital bed, young and dependent on machines with a stranger looking over him. 

“I haven’t spoken to my dad in ten years,” the number eachos in his mind as he says it like a chant of shame and he clears his throat to get over it. “If he showed up tomorrow I would drop everything. Not everyone can understand it.” 

He’s fallen back into the pillows and curled on his side as they’ve talked. They lay there for a moment, the room around them moving in the slow patterns of waves in time with their breathing. Stiles’ almost drifted off when Derek’s hand slowly crosses the bed between them and takes hold of his.

“November seventh.” Stiles scrunches his face in sleepy confusion at Derek’s words and the small smile that accompanies them. “My birthday. November seventh of eighty eight.” 

Stiles squeezes the hand in his and presses his smile into the pillow to hide how ridiculously wide it is. They fall asleep with their fingers linked. 

“Were you serious about quitting?”

The questions stops him mid cereal crunch. It’s a battle to keep from choking as he slowly breathes and finishes chewing. He hadn’t been at the time, or rather he had been while wrongly informed, and now that he was correctly informed he’d yet to revisit the decision. He liked working at the club, generally liked the people he worked with, but the thought of going back there after all this makes his nose scrunch in distaste. He adjusts the phone on his shoulder.

“Yeah I think so.”

“Dang,” Scott says, “I’m going to miss seeing you around.”

“Same here, man.”

“Well, if that’s the case are you ever coming to retrieve your wheels? I’ve got your keys in the office, and some paperwork to finalize the severance.”

Stiles debates it, but last he remembers there was still blood on his tires and his backpack… 

“You grab my pack that night? I don’t have it here.”

“Yeah, tried to bring it to you actually but you weren't around. It's starting to stink the place up too so you better hurry or it’s getting tossed.”

Stiles laughs, knowing it’s probably true. The temptation of wearing his own clothes is strong, and the club isn’t that far. He bets Isaac could get him there and back before Derek returns from wherever. Stiles’ looking forward to getting him in the pool now he’s over keeping his hands to himself. 

“Cool cool cool. Yeah, been staying with a buddy of mine. I’ll come by tonight. You gonna be there before opening?” 

“Always am.” Which is a bald faced lie because half the time Kira is the one on shift until Scott takes over half way, but he lets it slide. Whatever his faults he’s missed Scott, and any company other than Derek and Boyd for that matter. 

“See you then,” he’s about to hang up when he hears Scott say something else. 

“Derek going to be with you? Wanna know how many glasses to have for our last round as colleagues.”

“Dunno, depends if he’s back in time but it’s not likely. I’d keep your feet up.” 

“Sweet, will do.”

Stiles goes back to his cereal. It’s the healthy kind, the only box Derek had in the house. As he calls Isaac he focuses on remembering to ask him to add something boxed and rainbow coloured to the market list. 

Stiles sprawls out in the backseat, limbs akimbo with his phone above his face. The device weighs less than a sandwich and yet it takes a bit of effort to keep it from falling onto his face as Isaac navigates through traffic. By now the sun has started to set and it washes the interior of the car with pink hues. His thumb hovers over an unnamed contact in his phone. The chat history remains ominously blank and Stiles doesn’t enjoy the thought of sending the first message.

“You tell Derek we were going out?” 

“Of course.”

Stiles locks his screen and lets it fall to his chest. That’s settled then. He should have checked with him before leaving, but if Derek hadn’t stopped Isaac when he’d been informed it wasn’t worth worrying about. Besides, as fun as not wearing a seatbelt was Stiles wasn’t half in the footwell for nothing. In and out at the club. Say goodbye to a few colleagues if they were around, take a shot with Scott as he signed the papers, then be back in time to do a few warm up stretches before Derek arrived. 

What he’s not expecting is Derek standing at the back door. Isaac iddles long enough for Stiles to crawl out gracelessly on a sore ankle before driving off to park. Stiles tugs at his hair, limp not too bad but enough to be annoying as he approaches Derek. The setting sun is hitting him in an unfairly attractive way that’s not at all hindered by the impassive look on his face. For a moment the urge to kiss him is so strong Stiles has to stop looking. It’s odd, because they weren’t casual about PDA, and when it did happen it led to something. Stiles doesn't want it to lead anywhere, he just wants to say ‘hello, I’ve missed you’ without words. 

“Wasn’t expecting you,” he says instead, hands in his pockets to keep from reaching out. 

“Thought I told you to stay inside.”

“You my mother?” Stiles challenges, half joking. 

He knows Derek’s not too angry, otherwise he would have called or ordered Isaac not to take him, and he’d like to see Derek try being locked inside for two weeks. Derek probably knows what he’s thinking because despite his stiff jaw he stays silent while pulling open the door, holding it for him. Stiles hops into the hallway and blinks to adjust to the red light. 

True to his word Scott’s got his feet up on the desk when they walk into the office. He puts his phone down when he sees them and adjusts his shirt as he sits up with a bright eyed smile. 

“Stiles, you shit, I only brought two glasses down from the bar.”

Stiles gives him a cheeky grin, “can’t control what he does more than anyone else.” 

Derek quickly makes himself comfortable on the couch, legs spread and arms across the back like he’s known to do without refuting the light jab. Stiles’ about to join him when Scott pushes out of his chair. 

“I put your stuff in the locker, wasn’t lying about the smell. Might as well grab it while I run for two more of these pretty things.” Scott taps one of the crystals perched on the desk as he passes. 

Stiles’ ankle weakly protests at having to walk to the change rooms and back. He was going to do it regardless to catch a few friends before their shifts anyways, he guesses it’s a bit early still but Erica was known for her extensive prep routine so there’s a good chance of at least seeing her. Derek doesn’t look up from his phone when Stiles ducks out. 

With one hand hovering by the cool brick wall in case he needs the help Stiles worries the sore spot on his lip, a habit he’s gotten into since it split. He hasn’t figured out what’s bothering him by the time he reaches the back room. 

“Erica?” He turns into the doorway and finds the row of mirrors empty. 

A phone call will have to do, maybe he’ll even have people over for the first time since… Halloween last year. Maybe two years ago. The memories of that particular disaster remind him of why he no longer invites people over. On the other hand, maybe they’ll go out like they usually do. No mess or expensive gaming consoles broken. 

He pulls the latch on his usual locker only for a hand to reach over him and slam it shut.

“Nuh-uh-uh little fox,” hot breath wafts over his shoulder, “you sure are a pretty thing, aren’t ya?” 

The memory clicks a second before he’s slammed into the row of lockers. Under the sound of their metallic clatter a gunshot pops down the hall and freezes the blood in Stiles’ veins. He shoves off from the wall and dives for the red light of the doorway.

“Derek!”

Hands grab the back of his clothes and yank him into a hold he struggles against. He can’t feel the pain of his old injuries and barely notices the bruising hands as they tear at him. 

Go to Derek. Go to Derek. Derek. 

A mantra stuck on repeat in his mind as he squirms with elbows and fists flailing to get out of reach. He’s almost managed to slip away when an errant foot knocks into his ankle. Stiles’ legs buckle. The man is dragged down with him, thrown off balance by the fists he has clenched in Stiles’ shirt. Not a moment to waste Stiles scrambles to get out from under him, but the man has almost a head of height on him and the weight to match.

Hands wrap around his throat. Stiles puts his all into fighting it, his mind flying through possible weak spots to get the pressure off but the man’s arms are too long to reach his eyes and the thighs too strong to shift the weight no matter how Stiles bucks. Another gunshot goes off somewhere in the hallway, distant yelling he can’t hear over his own choking. Tears gather in his eyes from pain and he can’t- can’t give up, c’mon Stiles. Fuck. He keeps tearing at every bit of skin he can get to but the vice grip doesn’t waver and his vision starts to blur, his chest aching in desperation for air. Derek. Go to Derek. 

Air rushes in so quickly it’s painful when the hands disappear. Stiles’s chest expands like a balloon and keeps trying to inhale more with every ragged, drawn out breath. The weight of the man is gone. Stiles’ mind starts working slowly. The weight is gone because the man lays beside him with a bullet through the head and new hands start to pull at Stiles. He startles away from them until he’s blinked enough to see Peter’s stern face. He lets himself be manhandled upright and shoved into a seat in the corner.

Stiles’ never experienced anything more painful than trying to speak, “Derek-” 

Peter crouches over him so they’re eye to eye, “Stay the fuck here or I shoot you next.”

Then he’s gone like a phantom, unheard. Stiles’ still catching his breath. 

His gaze settles on the limp body of the man who tried to murder him, face down and body covered in a leatherman. A jock. Stiles winces as he swallows. Clumsy hands wipe at the sticky tears on his cheeks. His eyes flick to the doorway. Go to Derek. 

His feet take a few tries to hold him, if he keeps moving forward he’s fine, he can make it like this, inching along the hall, he just needs to get to Der- 

Someone flies out of the open office door and slams into the brick wall. They jolt twice in time with the sound of a gun and slump to the floor. For a second, a moment, all Stiles can see is the short dark hair. His hand flies to his own hair and tugs so hard he must pull strands out but he feels absolutely nothing. The rest of the picture comes into focus. It’s not… Derek wasn’t wearing… Derek was in a suit. Is in a suit. Somewhere, but not on the ground in front of Stiles. Whoever this was is dressed head to toe in casual black. Stiles doesn’t think Derek even owns Chuck Taylor’s.

Glass shatters from inside the office. Yelling, too many voices for Stiles to make out words. Derek, Peter, Boyd, Scott, all over top of each other. Stiles needs to go in there, needs to get to Derek, but he can’t stop looking at the body slumped against the brick long enough to keep moving. 

Two gunshots layered so close together they’re almost one. They echo, followed by ringing silence. Stiles covers his mouth to muffle a sound. When he finally drags himself to the edge of the doorway he leans carefully to peer into the office. He has to look down. 

Derek’s back is to him, coal shrouded shoulders bent over the person cradled in his lap. Boyd’s there, crouching in front of him with bloody hands. Stiles takes another step to see a dark head of hair and Peter’s face clenched in pain as Boyd presses down on his stomach with what looks like the shirt from his own back. Stiles’ eyes roam the rest of the room and catch on the motionless feet by the desk. 

“You were told to stay.” 

He’s taken another step closer without realising. Peter’s head is knocked back on Derek’s shoulder, looking at him. Stiles struggles to make his voice work, it cracks and grates in his raw throat. 

“Your nephew should’ve warned you I’m no good at listening.”

It’s a blur from there. Stiles stumbles down to the couch, exhaustion crashing into his bloodstream after the rush of adrenaline. Isaac comes in with a redheaded man, Deaton, and together they haul Peter presumably to medical assistance somewhere since Derek let’s them. Derek. He’s in constant motion, organizing closure of the club for the night, wiping his bloody hands off as he and Boyd speak in low tones. Stiles does his best not to look behind the desk. 

“Stiles,”

Derek stands before him now, a small bit of blood smeared on his face, those intense eyes scanning over him without settling on one place. With the last ounce of energy he has Stiles throws himself at him. He wraps his arms securely around Derek’s solid chest, savouring the reassuring rhythm of Derek’s lungs. He presses his face into Derek’s shoulder and breathes, fists clenched in the stupidest suit he’s ever seen. After a moment Derek’s arms come around him. 

“I thought… I kept hearing a gun and I thought… you jackass.” he mumbles into Derek’s shoulder, hard to keep his thoughts straight when all of his focus is directed towards ensuring Derek’s alive in his arms. 

Boyd takes them home. A crew of people had shown up to deal with the mess, speaking shortly with Derek before Stiles was ushered into the car. At least Boyd found another shirt somewhere. Derek keeps a hand and his eyes on Stiles the entire drive. It’s there in the backseat he explains in short words when Stiles asks. 

“Scott made a deal with Blake. There is no missing cousin, it would have worked in their favour if they took me out on the grounds of a personal vendetta. News would spread, they’d establish the credibility they need to move forward with their drug enterprise, and in return ownership of the commercial venues they'd push it through would go to Scott.”

It clashes with Stiles’ memories of Scott. He tries to think if there were times he seemed bitter, contempt, uneasy. There were none. Four years Stiles had known him. Whatever else he’d been, Scott was a good actor. He glances at Derek beside him. Sodium lights paint his profile in sharp relief against the dark of night while the car keeps rolling. They’d been school mates, so Scott had said. He wonders how the man feels about it, but there’s nothing in Derek’s eyes but endless green while he toys with the curling ends of Stiles' hair. 

There’s a stillness to the empty house when they fall into it. A delicate silence they don’t disturb as they make their way in the dark. He trails behind Derek and watches the back of broad shoulders, still straight and tall. Derek hasn’t said anything since the car, in fact he’s barely looked at Stiles after opening the front door, but he leaves the door open when he strips on marble tile in front of the shower. Stiles takes the invitation and follows. 

It’s there, under water too hot to be comfortable and steam clogging his lungs, as their hands rub lavender soap over the expanse of each other's bodies, that Derek starts to shake while he stands at Stiles’ back. It begins slowly, a silent trembling in his fingers after Stiles can’t stifle a flinch when Derek strokes the tender skin of his neck. A wet cut-off sound warns him as Derek tries to step back. Stiles grabs the man’s hand and holds it fiercely against the vulnerable plain of his stomach, keeping Derek in place. Derek’s forehead falls to his shoulder. Stiles closes his eyes at the sounds muffled into his skin. Derek curls around him.

When they lay in bed Derek keeps a tight hold on him in the murky currents of blue light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heeey-o can you tell I’m a film lighting tech? I freaking love lights and colour and had too much fun incorporating super obtuse saturated light into this story, not even sorry about it. Very self-indulgent fic right here.
> 
> Comment and Kudos make my heart grow :) <3


	3. Series Cont.

Hello!

I have written a Part 2 titled Hold You Close (Strike Me Down)  
Derek's POV with another look at the climatic scene. 

There is now a Part 3 titled The Start (of how it all ends)  
A prequel to Part 1, it takes you into Derek's childhood and sheds some light on his past.

Subscribe to the In Your Eyes (the light, the heat) SERIES to continue following more stories in this 'verse.

Enjoy :)  
zanni xx

A comment a day keeps the kanima away <3

**Author's Note:**

> Spread the love on tumblr!  
> https://zanniscaramouche.tumblr.com/tagged/Blue-Light


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